The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. The land about these walls is a common graveyard. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. That is an evil place!” She cried.
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